


Detestable Things

by Cleopatterer



Category: The Absolutist - John Boyne
Genre: Gap Filler, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:46:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleopatterer/pseuds/Cleopatterer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s leaning toward me, big blue eyes full of compassion. I can see he wants to comfort me. And suddenly, I’m not sure how, but I know what I’ve only guessed at, that Tristan is mine. He’ll go where I lead him, good soldier that he is, no questions asked."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detestable Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pearl_o](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/gifts).



> All dialogue is directly from the book.

Tristan finds me in the clearing by the river, well after night has fallen. I scrub hastily at my face, but the moon is bright and I know he can see the tears that have only just begun to dry. Part of me had known he’d come looking, had wanted it even, but now that he’s here I wish he’d let me be. He means well, and I’m sorry I worried him, but as the conversation turns inevitably to Wolf, I can’t help but feel angry. He doesn’t understand what happened to Wolf or maybe he just doesn’t care. Either way, I don’t want to talk about it.

“Wolf killed himself,” Tristan says disdainfully. “Perhaps not on purpose but through his own foolishness. Only an idiot would go marching up through that forest in the middle of the night.”

I smile, shaking my head. “Oh, Tristan,” I murmur, bemused. How can Tristan remain so unsuspecting after so many weeks of seeing Wolf bullied? “You really are unbelievably innocent at times, aren’t you? It’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

Tristan bristles. “Don’t patronize me. You don’t know as much as you think.”

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” I ask him. Clearly Tristan’s dislike for Wolf has clouded his judgment. “After all, you believe that Wolf was the author of his own misfortune, don’t you? Only an innocent would think that. Or a bloody fool. Wolf didn’t fall, Tristan. He didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. Killed in cold blood.”

Tristan splutters in indignation, so I lay it out for him. Wolf gaining the status of conscientious objector. His assignment to the War Department. His transfer, planned for that very morning. The hatred he’d garnered from Clayton and his cold-eyed lackeys, Left and Right, trained to kill, armed and ready.

I can see I’ve got through to him. “Jesus,” he breathes.

“Now you have it,” I say, but having convinced Tristan, my anger returns. Does it matter that Tristan knows the truth? There’ll be no justice for Wolf. 

“But what can we do about it, anyway? Nothing. We’ve done what we came here to do. We’ve made ourselves fit and strong. We’ve trained our minds to believe that the man in front of us who doesn’t speak our language is a piece of meat that needs stripping from the bone. We’re perfect warriors now. Ready to kill. Sergeant Clayton’s work is done. We’re just getting a head start on the action, that’s all.”

More than ever, I wonder if Wolf had the right of it. Today it’s Clayton’s thugs who’re the killers; tomorrow it’ll be me. Can I really kill someone? Will I end up just as bad as them? Tears once again spill down my cheeks. I bury my face in my hands. How can I follow Clayton into battle when I know what I know?

Remembering Tristan, I realize I don’t want him to see me like this. Hiding my face, I gulp, “Don’t. Go back to the barracks, Tristan. Please.”

Ignoring my plea, he reaches forward. “Will, it’s all right, I don’t mind. We all feel it. We’re all lost.”

Oh, I’m lost all right, but how can I tell him I’m losing faith, if not in this war in those I must follow. “But, damn it,” I mutter, finally turning to look at him, heedless of my tears, “Jesus Christ, Tristan, what’s going to happen to us out there? I’m scared shitless, honest I am.”

He’s leaning toward me, big blue eyes full of compassion. I can see he wants to comfort me. And suddenly, I’m not sure how, but I know what I’ve only guessed at, that Tristan is mine. He’ll go where I lead him, good soldier that he is, no questions asked. 

And I want him. Wicked I may be, but Lord, I want him. This beautiful boy who cares for me so. Here, in this clearing, safely tucked away from Clayton and his goons, from lying, and judgment and sermons on sin. Before bullets and blood and mortar and all the fucked up shite of war I’ve heard about rip away the last of his innocence. 

And why not? Tomorrow we go to war where the sinners and the innocent will die together so why not take what I’ve wanted for so long? Since the night I almost kissed him? Or maybe, if I’m honest, since that first day when I caught him looking at me and couldn’t help but smile back?

I grab his shoulders and pull him to me; wrapping a hand around behind his head, grasping a fistful of his soft, short hair, I press a hard kiss against his lips. Tristan sighs and accepts my mouth willingly, as if this is what he’s been waiting for all along.

Loosening my hold, I caress his cheek, his skin smooth under my fingertips. I tilt his chin up and away, until he’s looking at me again, a question in his eyes. A firm push against his shoulders, and understanding lights in his face; he slowly leans back until he’s lying on the ground, offering himself up to me.

With a growl, I cover his body with mine, my mouth once again seeking his. I force his mouth open with my tongue; it’s messy and awkward and I wonder if Tristan lied about ever having been kissed.

Tristan is writhing beneath me and even through coarse layers I can feel his erection against me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt, but every cell in my body is shouting for more as I grind back against him. “Tris,” I murmur into his mouth. He groans in return and I can feel his hands scrabbling at my back. 

It’s too much; my body is a furnace and I feel like I’m suffocating in my clothes. Rearing back, I shuck off my coat, utterly graceless in my haste. I kneel there, Tristan’s body bracketed between my legs. Chests heaving, we stare at each other. 

My eyes travel down the length of his body, and stop at the outline of his cock, clearly visible through his trousers. I remember the feel of it against me, and my hand seems to be acting of its own accord, because all of a sudden I’m running tentative fingers along its length; in this moment I want nothing more than to feel it, hot and hard, in my hand. 

Suddenly Tristan grabs my wrist and I look up at him, stricken. He’s panting, his lips are red and swollen, but there’s no disgust in his face. Instead, he looks at me with wide, soft eyes and the hint of a smile. Letting go of me, slowly but deliberately, Tristan opens his coat and tugs off his braces, undoing buttons and shoving away fabric as he goes, until at last he’s lying there exposed. 

And then I’m yanking at my clothes -- I can’t get them off fast enough. No longer do I want only to touch his cock, I need to feel it against mine. I fling myself back down on top of him, kissing him with a fervor I’ve never felt before. Our cocks slide together and it’s more incredible than I could ever have imagined. Snaking a hand down between us, I take both our leaking cocks in my fist, smearing fluid to ease the way, and begin to stroke, reveling in the delicious friction of our cocks rubbing together. 

Tristan wraps an arm around me, and his fingers claw at my back. He moans brokenly and I know he’s as close as I am. My pace begins to falter as the heat builds at the base of my spine, so I increase the pressure. Tristan arches off the ground, coming into my hand with a loud gasp, and then I’m following him over the edge with the most exquisite release.

***

After, I lie on cold ground, wiping my hand in the grass and struggling to catch my breath, Tristan stroking my hair. He’s warm and solid and so very real next to me, murmuring in my ear, words of love and devotion, words I long for but know I cannot hear from him. And then it’s another man’s words I hear, my father’s favorite sermon, “Now this was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant... they were haughty and did detestable things before me.”

I lurch away from Tristan, heart seizing in my chest. Yanking up my trousers, I turn to look at Tristan, still laying there, half naked and wanton in the grass. I stare at him, the evidence of what we’d just done, and my stomach churns.

“Will,” Tristan starts, but I can’t face him. Shaking my head, willing Tristan to be silent, I head for the bank, stumbling in my haste. Tristan grabs for me, and I can hear him begging me to stay in the way he repeats my name, but... I just can’t.

“No.” I tear myself away from him, angry that he won’t let me leave, and run all the way back to camp, hot tears once again stinging my cheeks.

Back in the barrack, I hurry into bed, grateful that everyone is asleep. I curl up facing the wall, pulling the blanket all the way up to my chin and screw my eyes shut, just as Tristan opens the door. I try to steady my breathing and feign sleep; I hear him walk up beside the bunk and I can feel his eyes on me. He has to know I’m awake but I pray he’ll leave me be. After what seems like an eternity, Tristan sighs and settles into his own bunk. I’m flooded with relief. 

I just want to pretend like nothing ever happened. If Clayton or Moody or, oh God, _my father_ , knew what Tristan and I did--

My face burns with shame. It can’t happen again. And if that means the end of our friendship, so be it. I can’t look back, or I’ll be well and truly lost.


End file.
